They Flew by Night

They Flew by Night Mirja Lanz (bio) Translated by Catherine Venner (bio) Click for larger view View full resolution [End Page 26] I. Northward January 2, Arrival By night they flew, korvat kuin korpit, ears like ravens, who hear a bark. They listened to the forest rustling; to the storms in the woods. Crowns of conifers, webs of branches bustling in the dark. Over the continent webs lustred while the earth was asleep. Northward the ravens followed linnunrataa, the pathway of the birds in the night sky. They did not see a skylark in the comet's splattered stream, nor half a finch in the stardust. No whisper of a wagtail in the cosmic whirl, not even a swallow's wing in the galactic sweep. Ears like a raven, who hears a bark. The ravens did not turn back. On the same night, Aava booked a flight in the internet's pale glow. The plane thundered along electronic routes over shores and seas. Aava landed on the runway, and so she traveled directly onward, in a train. Tammikuu, January It was a land of wealds and water through which Aava traveled in a train, on a winter's day so windless that it appeared as if through a liquid lens. The rail lines followed shorelines northward. Lakes reposed in tangled bosks. Shores appeared and disappeared. The rail lines steered the train through the afternoon. In the smooth water, a reflection of the woods. World and netherworld met each other on the strand: maa and manala. Janus-faced, about-faced. [End Page 27] In the window glass Aava's face ghosted like a gauze. Veil-like, it glided across the land. Her cheeks sweeping through fir trees. The corners of her mouth sinking into the silent seam of the shores. Aava felt soft as silk on that afternoon, in a train. In H., the cold wrapped itself around her. She yanked her suitcase away, away from the station up the hill to the hotel. The suitcase's rollers rattling. Darkness from the trees penetrated the pools of light from the lamps. The walkway wound in the incline beneath her numb feet, where the night had already sunk its teeth. Aava stabbed a slender key into the room door. She slid the leaden lock. The suitcase swept over the threshold onto the carmine carpet. The carpet swallowing her steps. The window watched her while the furniture withdrew. Aava sat in the seat. For how long? Silence settled over her. I'm seeking the fishing grounds of my elders' eye. The place that drove my grandfathers from their beds at night when the fish were biting. I'm seeking a spot where rings ripple over still water and hooks hang in the deep. I'm not journeying into the unknown. I'm journeying to my ancestors' home. I'm seeking the fishing grounds of my mind's eye, Aava said to the cold twin on the other side of the window. Two nights later, a thin sheet of ice sealed lakes, bays, and shores. The water was gone. The harbormaster recorded the date. The cold spread. Sheet by sheet, it fed the thin ice. The ice thickened and awoke with a snap. It stretched, shivered, and strengthened again. Each day it grew deeper and, for a short while, reflected the shine of the distant sun back into the sky. White forms wove through the black surface of the ice: branching, fingerlike, beakoid shapes and lines that bespoke the slow, all-pervading frost. In the morning darkness, tradesmen hurried with speedy steps and heavy shoes through the hotel corridors and through Aava's half-sleep. As it grew light, Aava went down for breakfast, but the vacuum sweeper was already screeching in the dining room. Lunch was being cleared away as Aava stepped into the tavern. In the afternoon, when she stood in the frosty air outside the hotel, all muffled up for a stroll, the sun was setting. Dusk gathered like a drawstring bag; day folded into night. Aava endured. She clicked the lamps on. In the window, walls and furnishings emerged out of the frost. The room cast a side room into...